


three hundred and sixty-four

by liarlagoon



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Birthday Party, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Sort Of, a brief mention of canon violence right at the beginning, it's small hurt mostly comfort, mostly 60 and Markus but everyone else does show up on screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liarlagoon/pseuds/liarlagoon
Summary: It has been exactly three hundred and sixty-four days since the revolution, since the night Sixty was activated and the night he came to life. He's carved out a space for himself, a family and friends, and usually he's happy, but for the last week, everyone he loves has been pushing him away, and they won't tell him why.





	three hundred and sixty-four

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday New ERA! This is part of our birthday big bang, and the [beautiful art](https://imgur.com/a/ckuLbl2) you will find embedded is by the wonderful [fadesinthelight](https://fadesinthelight-creations.tumblr.com/)!

Sixty Anderson has never known a world before the revolution. That is not to say that he has not had the experience of being commanded by another or the struggle of and for deviancy. He is activated on the night of the revolution, in the midst of chaos, given orders to kidnap and kill, don't ask questions, come back when it's done for immediate deactivation. He is awoken, given the gift of deviancy, courtesy of a bullet to the face. He lays half conscious, processors sluggish and confused, while the voices of thousands of androids echo around him. _Wake up_ , they call, demand, until it's all he can hear, until a red wall appears before him, until the force of it shattering knocks him into stasis. 

He wakes hours later alone in an empty warehouse, a pool of his own blood spreading beneath him. Warnings completely obscure his vision, and his processor is overclocking trying to find and remedy their source. He rolls onto his side, clutching his head and taking deep, gasping breaths. It takes him some time to locate the issue, but when he does he feels like it should have been obvious: there's a bullet in his eye. He cuts off the connection between the eye and his processor and pulls the broken biocomponent out along with the bullet, and the warnings clear. He slumps back against the floor while he waits for his processor to cool down.

Eight hours have passed when he finally drags himself to his feet and shuffles towards the elevator. He exits the tower and hacks an autocab to take him to the only safe place in his stolen memory: Lieutenant Anderson's house. He collapses on the porch, one hand clasped over the bullet hole in his shoulder, and watches the snow fall softly on the front lawn until he gets an alert that his thirium reserves have fallen below fifty percent, and then he sets a five foot proximity alert, drops his head against the side paneling, and goes back to stasis. 

The alert wakes him again only forty-five minutes later, and he opens his remaining eye to see Connor crouched in front of him and Hank stood several feet away with his gun trained on Sixty's head. 

Sixty flinches and releases his shoulder, raising his bloodied hand in front of his face, as if that would stop another bullet from reaching him. "Wait!" 

Hank narrows his eyes at the action, clearly trying to discern whether it's a trick, false fear designed to lower their guard so he can attack again, and demands, "Why are you here?" 

"I… this is the only place I remember. I didn't know where else to go." 

Connor holds out a hand, chassis bare to the frigid air. Sixty takes it and lets Connor verify the truth of his statement. It's not a memory probe, as he would have expected; Connor only prods gently at the edges of his mind, brushes carefully over the memory of the wall breaking that Sixty pushes forward, practically shoves at Connor, desperate for someone to lean on, somewhere to call safe. Connor pulls away from the interface, but he doesn't let go of his hand. 

"It's alright, Hank," he says, and Sixty slumps in relief. Hank sighs wearily and puts away his gun, and the three of them make their way inside, Sixty leaning heavily on Connor's shoulder. They give him thirium and patch his wound, and when that's done, Hank retreats to his room and goes to sleep while Connor gives him clean clothes to wear and directs him to lay down on the couch. He's covered with a soft, thick blanket, and it would be so easy to drift away, but--

"Don't you need your shoulder repaired as well?" 

Connor's lips twitch up, and he shakes his head, holding a hand out again. Sixty takes it, and this time it's not even a full connection - just a simple message, the contents of Connor's own system diagnostic. Thirium reserves at eighty-five percent, damaged line repaired, reinforcement suggested, replacement plating suggested. 

"It can wait till morning," Connor says quietly. His smile grows, just a little, and the corners of his eyes scrunch when he continues, teasing, "You missed." 

Sixty's nose scrunches, offended despite himself that Connor would imply that he's a bad shot. "Only because Hank pushed me." 

Connor hums and seats himself on the floor beside Sixty's head without letting go of his hand, maintaining a surface-level interface. Sumo comes and crawls on top of him, and Connor buries the fingers of his free hand in his fur, face softening, but Sixty can feel when his thoughts shift to something darker, so he's unsurprised that the next time Connor speaks, it's low and serious. "Have you already shut down the Amanda program?"

"No," Sixty responds. He feels Connor stiffen, a brief sensation of cold and fear skittering across the surface level thoughts he has access to, so he rushes to continue, "I never had one. I wasn't supposed to be active long enough to need any guidance." 

Connor turns to face him with an expression that would seem blank to anyone who didn't know him, but despite having only physically met less than twenty-four hours previous, Sixty does know him, probably knows him better than anyone else ever will, so the uncertainty writ across his features is plain to see. Sixty deepens their interface, shows Connor the blank space in his code where the Zen Garden would be in a model meant to live more than a day, shows him the Cyberlife guard who had woken him and given him his assignment, _authorization gamma three one three, deactivate RK800 313 248 317-51, return for immediate deactivation upon completion_. 

Connor squeezes his hand and drops his head back against the couch, relief clear in the slope of his shoulders. Sumo snuggles closer, resting his head on Connor's shoulder, draped over him like a large, smelly blanket. Sixty squeezes back and settles down against the pillow, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. He hovers at the edge of stasis, feeling the call of the empty abyss, and eventually, when he hears Sumo's snores and the soft sounds of Connor's fans powering down, he lets himself fall. 

\---

It has been exactly three hundred and sixty-four days since the revolution, since the night Sixty was activated and the night he came to life. There is a memorial service set up for the anniversary of the revolution, and everyone is busy with last minute arrangements. Hank and Connor are both at the station, working a homicide that came in only a few hours ago. Simon and Markus are making sure everything is organized so that everyone can safely get to the memorial grounds and the media can be present without being disruptive or disrespectful. Josh and North are working on "the miscellaneous stuff" and told him not to worry about it when he asked if there was anything he could help with. 

He understands that it's important and they're busy. He does. It's just that he wishes they would let him be busy with them. He's asked every one of his friends if he could help them, told them he really wanted to be useful, but he'd been brushed off over and over, told to go do something fun or hang out with Sumo or participate in one of the activities around Jericho. He tried that, at first, but it's been a week. He's tired of hanging out with Sumo and he's not in the mood to do anything fun, so he's just sitting on a bench on the main floor of Jericho, absentmindedly watching the people go by. His LED blinks a slow, dull red. He'd tried to get it to stay yellow, at first, but it switched back to red every time someone looked at him, so he's given up. 

He's there for three hours before he sees anyone who knows him well enough to approach him. He ducks his head and tries to look busy, but Markus seems to have a sixth sense for emotionally compromised androids, and today is no exception. He's drifting towards Sixty before he even sees him, and when he spots him, concern spills across his face. 

"Hey, Six," he greets, taking a seat on the bench, close but still a respectful distance away. "Did something happen? You seem upset." 

Sixty just shrugs and turns his face away. He knows it's immature, but he doesn't want to talk to Markus. Markus has brushed him aside just as much as the others. Doesn't he have the right to be angry? 

"Hey," Markus says softly, "what's going on?" 

He places a hand on Sixty's wrist, intending to soothe, but it just makes Sixty angrier. He snatches his arm away and turns to Markus with a glare. "Nothing," he snaps. "Don't you have an event to organize?" 

Markus pauses, considering. He looks Sixty over, and Sixty looks out into the crowd, focusing on the thrum of energy that makes the walls of Jericho feel alive even when everyone is resting and trying not to feel like Markus can see much more than he wants him to. Eventually, Markus hums to himself and stands, and Sixty is both relieved and disappointed that he's being left alone again. 

Except, Markus doesn't leave. Instead, he holds a hand out expectantly, waiting for Sixty to take it. "Come on." 

"... What?" 

Markus rolls his eyes and grabs Sixty's hand, pulling him off the bench before he can protest. "Come on. We're going to go find something to do. You look miserable." 

"But the memorial service--" 

"--is almost done. Simon can handle the rest of it. Don't make me drag you." 

Markus pulls him off the bench, and Sixty follows him with minimal protest, curious and pleased to have company despite himself. They make their way through the crowds of the atrium and into the winding hallways leading towards Jericho's rear exit. Eventually, they come to a stop outside of large, intricately carved wooden doors. 

Before the building became Jericho, the doors had led to a large open ballroom, decorated with glittering chandeliers and polished gold, every surface twinkling with opulence and reflecting sunlight from the massive retractable skylights that made up the majority of the ceiling. Now, it's a greenhouse. The skylights are closed today, blocking out the snow, but the room is still bright and warm, a colorful assortment of flowers lazily swaying in the breeze that the air differential from opening the door causes. 

"We have some gerberas to plant," Markus says, leading Sixty further into the room. "Your favorite, right? You can put them in color order, the way you're always saying everything should be." 

"... Okay," Sixty says, anger fading into an awkward mix of irritation and warmth and LED fading back to a dull blue. Planting flowers doesn't make up for a week of being ignored, but it's nice that Markus had thought of it. 

They make their way to a small plot of dirt, sectioned off and ready to be dug out and filled with the pallet of potted gerberas. Markus retrieves two pairs of gloves, and they set to work. They dig out the dirt, and then Markus sits and patiently waits for Sixty to decide on the arrangement he wants, then passes him the flowers as he asks for them and gently teases him about talking to the flowers as he plants. All in all, it takes about an hour, and at the end of it there is a plot of gerberas arranged geometrically and in the order of the visible color spectrum. 

"Feeling better?" Markus asks at the end of it. 

"A little." 

"Wanna talk about why you were upset?" 

Sixty ducks his head, picking at a loose string on one of his gloves. "I'm just… lonely, I guess. I haven't been able to spend time with anyone in a week. You all blew me off every time I tried, and I know you've been busy, but I even offered to help and you _still_ said no." 

Markus's face falls while Sixty talks, guilt seeping into the lines of his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize we were making you feel unwanted." 

Sixty shrugs, obviously uncomfortable with the apology. "Hanging out with Sumo was an okay alternative for the first couple days." 

An awkward silence falls between them, only broken up by the sounds of other androids moving around and the chitter of bugs living among the plant stems, and then Markus hums and claps his hands against his legs decisively. "How do you feel about spending a little more time hanging out with Sumo if I come with you this time?" 

Sixty chews on his lower lip for a moment, then nods. Markus stands and offers a hand to pull him up. He takes it, and they clean up their workspace and head for the Anderson residence. 

Sumo is ecstatic when they arrive. He starts barking as soon as Sixty puts his key in the door. Sixty tells Markus to stand back, and when he opens the door Sumo comes flying, leaping into Sixty's arms. He rests his giant head on Sixty's shoulder, and Markus huffs a disbelieving laugh as Sixty bounces him like a baby and carries him back inside. 

"Does he always do that?" 

Sixty shifts Sumo around in his arms and deposits him in his bed, then turns to give Markus a playfully smug grin. "Only to me. I'm his favorite." 

"I can see why," Markus says, flopping down onto the couch. "Are Connor and Hank at work?" 

"They pretty much always are," Sixty responds, taking a seat next to him with a little more grace. "I can talk to Connor sometimes when Hank is sleeping, but if I want to talk to Hank, I have to catch him on his lunch break. They're happy to be in charge of developing the android crimes division, but it's a lot of work." 

Markus frowns. "So you, what, spend all your time here, by yourself?" 

"No. I usually hang out with you, Simon, Josh, or North for at least a couple of hours every day." 

Markus winces. "I'm sorry. Again. I can talk to them about it, if you want." 

Sixty pushes his right hand under his left sleeve, scratching anxiously at his wrist. Markus catches his hands, and he sees faint, uneven blue marks underneath the new scratches. "Sorry," Sixty mumbles. "That would be good. If you could talk to them for me." 

"Okay. I will." 

Sixty tugs on his hands a little, but Markus doesn't let go. Instead, he slowly, gently pulls Sixty forward as he leans backwards, until they're both laying down on the couch. Sixty is stiff and uncertain, but he doesn't pull away, and after a few seconds, he relaxes, curling against Markus's chest. 

"Okay?" Markus asks, letting go of Sixty's hands and rubbing his upper arms instead. Sixty nods, a soft, embarrassed blue tinting his face. "Good. You should rest. It seems like this week has been hard on you." 

The blue on Sixty's face gets darker, but he doesn't deny it. He closes his eyes, and Markus starts running a hand through his hair, scratching gently along his scalp. The rest of the tension melts out of Sixty's body, and within minutes, he's in stasis. 

\---

He wakes up slowly, Markus's hand still running through his hair. It's distracting, enough so that between bringing his systems back online one by one and paying attention to it, he doesn't notice the other people in the room at first. 

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," North's voice says. 

Sixty's LED spins red and he jerks in surprise, only stopped from falling off the couch by Markus's arm wrapped around his waist. 

"Woah, kid, take it easy," Hank says from the armchair by Sixty's feet. 

Sixty extricates himself from Markus's hold and sits up, looking around the room. There are colored lights hung around the perimeter of the room, a few glittery streamers hanging from the ceiling, and a big balloon that says "Happy Birthday!" in neon blue bubble letters across a background of a rainbow birthday cake tied to the coffee table. Josh and Connor are kneeling beside the coffee table, and Simon and North are standing behind them. 

"What's going on?" Sixty asks, taking in the room and its occupants. 

"It's your birthday!" Josh exclaims, then corrects, "Well, tomorrow is your birthday, but Markus told us you were upset, so we moved the party up to today." 

"My… birthday." 

"The anniversary of your activation date," Simon says. "A celebration of a year of life. We know you've had a harder time than most adjusting to being independent, and we wanted to celebrate the progress you've made." 

North chimes in, "We wanted it to be a surprise. Josh and I have been telling you you couldn't help when you asked because we were trying to figure out what to do whenever we had a moment of free time, and we couldn't do that if you were there." 

"I called them while you were in stasis and told them what was going on, that we'd hurt you by pushing you away without telling you why, and we decided that just being present was the most important thing," Markus finishes, having sat up while the others were talking. 

Sixty stares at them. Tears start running down his face, and everyone's faces fall before he lets out a choked laugh. "You're all stupid," he says. "I can't believe I'm friends with so many idiots." 

"I guess you just have bad taste," North jokes, breaking the tension that had built up. 

Sixty laughs again, and Markus pulls him into a hug. Sixty returns it with one arm and reaches towards everyone else with the other. They crowd around him, smothering him in affection. 

"We love you," Connor whispers in his ear, the closest to the center of the hug besides Markus. 

Sixty hugs them harder. A hand lands on top of his head, ruffling his hair, and he looks up to see Hank leaning on the back of the couch, a rare soft smile on his face. "Happy birthday, kid." 

Warmth builds in his chest and spreads through his limbs and across his skin until it consumes him, and he surrenders to it without complaint. 

A celebration of life, Simon had said. His first year gone, and a family gained. His arm is being pinched between Connor and Josh, his hair is a mess from Hank's ruffling, he's leaning forward at an angle that twists his spine, and Sumo is shoving past North to put his slobbery jaws in Sixty's lap. It's uncomfortable and disgusting. 

He wouldn't change it for the world.


End file.
